


Fermata

by xirucem



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Collection, Ficlet Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:04:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xirucem/pseuds/xirucem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a moment for the interludes to settle in, for the brief moments in time when there is nothing but them in the universe. When gravity falls and wraps them close in a net, limbs, fragile bones, and singing skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Castiel likes Dean best in the morning.

When the years of care and pain are not present on his face, when he is just a man. When his hair is ruffled and soft, his breath is slow, and his bright green eyes are fluttering open. When they blink and squint into the light that softly shines in lines through the window shades across freckle dusted cheeks.

They rarely say anything upon waking, when Sam has gone out and left them together- Castiel knows that Sam figured it out, but Sam doesn’t say anything. It isn’t out of over politeness- it’s because he doesn’t need to.

Even though their waking is usually silent, touch is more often than not their manner of greeting. A ‘good morning, Dean’ is a brush of fingers across a broad shoulder. A ‘good morning t’you too’ is a small smile and a closing of green eyes. Sometimes they move a little closer, sharing the morning light between them. Dean likes to have his arms around Castiel and it took him a while to get used to Dean’s need for touch. An anchor against everything else, an anchor and a shield.

It is enough, and he likes to wake tangled together. He always wakes warm, although ‘wake’ is a relative term, as he doesn’t need sleep. But he rests, and keeps nightmares from the brothers as best as he can, because when they live in one, they deserve a rest at least when they sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Some days Dean’s words are soft.  
Whispers on wings,  
Hands in dark hair,  
Human skin on celestial.

Some days Castiel’s words are full of wonder.  
“Can you hear the stars sing?”  
“Baby, the stars don’t sing.”  
“You’re not listening to them.”

Some days Dean does not speak.  
But he speaks with lips  
With hands  
With breaths and movements.

The days Castiel does not speak ache.  
Something settles into Dean’s heart those days  
Something cold  
Something strange when blue eyes are drawn skyward.

When they share their warmth  
They drift.  
“Can you hear them yet?”  
“Not yet, but I’m trying.”


	3. Chapter 3

It’s when the sun falls he can taste it.

Bitter sweet on the tip of his tongue, the tastes like bile and he knows he can’t do anything about it.

He knows something is wrong. He sees feathers black with a sheen like charcoal, tattered and torn, harried and worn, scattered here and there, fallen and lost. But he goes on, swallowing honey lies laced with vinegar.

There is sunshine and he just wants it to last one more day. One more is all he asks.

But Castiel does not hope for more, he yearns for what will not come, for two particular threads to be knit together and not break.

Their words are mostly whispers lost in limbs as tangled as the fraying threads.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“…You sure ‘bout that?”

“Nothing is wrong.”

“If you say so.”


	4. Cartography

Hands become important for them.  
Hands become words,  
Fingertips become punctuation.

Hands across a chest scarred and worn,  
Marked and torn,  
Over shoulders one laid claim to and   
Stretches of skin with goosebumps like prayers.

Hands across a torso healed countless times  
Only slightly paler, slightly smaller,  
The cup filled by a presence.  
Ribs that are only a fragile cage.

Fingertips graze and pull,  
Mapping new territories,  
The valleys between vertebrae,  
The tectonic pull of muscles and ligaments.

Words hardly ever find room in the air  
Between breaths of morning light,  
Between faded motel curtains,  
Between two ephemeral lives.


End file.
